


Beautiful

by NorroenDyrd



Series: My Precious Heathen [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, Bonding, Drunken Confessions, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Trespasser - Freeform, True Love, Trust, wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan is never tired of telling Cassandra that she is beautiful. it's just that sometimes he does it under inappropriate circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

***

After a couple of hours of standing still and cringing at the sound of awkward silence, it becomes apparent that the poor fugitive mayor of Crestwood can no longer bear the weight of his shackles. Taking pity on the man, Josephine motions to the guards to lead him off, and then turns to Cassandra, who is standing like an exceptionally broody statue on the other side of the throne.

'Whatever are we going to do?!' the Ambassador exclaims, her usual stack of papers fluttering like the wings of a startled bird. 'Inquisitor Lavellan has never been late to a judgment before! Do you think something happened to him?'

'I know exactly what happened,' Cassandra says through her teeth. 'The Iron Bull'.

She does not deign to give any further explanation and struts off, leaving the flustered Josephine to deal with the disappointed crowd that was looking forward to a public execution. She does not pause or stray off her path to look around in search of the missing Inquisitor - for she has a fairly good idea where she is going to find him. In the tavern, throwing a feast in memory of that dragon they vanquished near Crestwood - while looking for a village woman that would not stay put until the living dead menace was dealt with. Bull was positively screamed with delight when the enormous beast first took off, raising a cloud of dust with her wings and perching herself on top of a ruined tower - and he insisted that, instead of attending to important business as befits the Inquisitor, Lavellan celebrate with him. And, of course, the elf agreed... Cassandra strongly suspects that a desire to spite her played some part in this - because he always does the most absurd things just to spite her. The foolish, irresponsible child.

'Aah, theeeeere she is! Cass-an-duh! Cash-under! Cass-thunder! I was hoping you'shhhhh show up!'

As she throws the tavern door open, looming on the threshold like a tall statue of Andraste about to vanquish the unbelievers, Cassandra is greeted by a tidal wave of hearty laughter (of course, that Qunari just had to include everyone in his unseemly party, didn't he?) and loud voices - of which the loudest is Lavellan's, hoarse and so painfully slurred that the Seeker shudders in distaste.

The elf's appearance matches his half-incoherent exclamation: with his hair standing on end and with his liquor-stained doublet so horribly askew that his left shoulder is almost entirely bare, he is wobbling comically in the middle of one of the tables, brandishing a wooden tankard that is almost as big as his head. With his free hand, he is clinging for support to the nearest object - which happens to be the horn of the Iron Bull, who is lounging on the wooden bench in his usual pose, eyeing the swaying elf with a sort of fond approval that infuriates Cassandra even further. It's as if the blasted horned brute knows he is being a bad influence, and enjoys every second of it!

Huffing loudly like a battle steed about to charge, Cassandra storms inside and ploughs her way through the crowd of revellers, who all seem to have their eyes glued to the Inquisitor. But the very sight of the Seeker is akin to gathering storm clouds that herald a typhoon - so everyone who happens to be in her way quickly scatters off, suddenly sober and dead serious and remembering they have things to do around the keep.

The front line of the merry crowd - those closest to the table - consists entirely of the Bull's Chargers, and the final obstacle that the living typhoon has to sweep off her path is Krem. Looking the Seeker over, the mercenaries' second-in-command whistles and mutters to himself,

'The angry wife is here!'

Luckily for him, he is still sober enough to dodge an oncoming smack on the head - after which, he darts off, almost knocking the resident bard off her feet.

With Krem out of the picture, Cassandra remains face to face with Lavellan, who gives her a broad grin and waves the tankard before her face, making tiny splashes of some acid-like liquid land on her skin (she can swear the stuff burns holes through her flesh - but right now, she has more pressing matters than treating sores to attend to).

'Heeey...' the elf drawls, 'Come join us! After all, you are a hangon drunter! Drater hurgon... Dragger...'

Cassandra interrupts his feeble attempts at speaking - rather brashly, as is her custom. Grinding her teeth together fiercely, she reaches forward, grabs the elf by the ankle, and makes a tremendous tug, which makes him topple off the table right into her arms.

The clamour of the overturned tableware is surpassed in loudness only by one sound - the collective cheer that the remaining Chargers give Lavellan as his face gets smooshed against Cassandra's breast plate. The Seeker's cheeks and ears flare up a rich, juicy magenta - but she says nothing and, prying the elf off herself like a barnacle, drags him off by the hand, praying that they get seen by as few people as possible, and that those who do see them will be either too discreet or too hungover to bring this up the next morning.

She uses a roundabout route along the battlements, cowering behind the stone parapet - and her maneuvering has already led her halfway towards Lavellan's quarters, when the elf tries to say something once again.

'Cass... Hey Cass...' he murmurs, stumbling in the Seeker's wake, as she refuses to take his jelly-like legs into consideration and keeps pushing forward.

'Don't you "Hey, Cass" me!' she snaps over her shoulder. 'I am not talking to you now, when you are too intoxicated to understand me! But once you sleep it off, as the Maker is my witness, I -'

'Cass...' he persists, groping helplessly around with one hand in an attempt to touch her. 'You are... You are beeeeoh-tee-ful'.

'What?!'

She stops dead in her tracks and swivels around, letting go of the elf so that he plops piteously down to the ground.

The fall does not seem to discourage him, however; remaining seated on his hind quarters, he endures Cassandra's flaming stare, and repeats, this time almost coherently,

'Beautiful. You are so beautiful... I think this... all the time... But I never say it... Your face... It should be on one of those little... Jee-ewww-wel thingies... a gem stone with a profffffl carved into it... There should be por... portraits of you in galleries in Val... Val... Rooyooo... Statues of you, like the ones made by my... ansheshtors...'

Cassandra's eyes widen; she feels another blush spreading across her face - and instantly scolds herself for melting so readily at the sound of some drunken drivel.

'You are delirious,' she says dryly, extending her hand to help Lavellan get to his feet.

But instead of accepting her support, he cradles her hand between his, and presses it against his burning cheek.

'Beautiful,' he repeats in a half-whisper, a dreamy smile touching his lips. 'So beautiful... So perfect... You take... My breath... away... But - '

Lavellan looks up at her, his eyes suddenly welling up with dense, drunken tears.

'But I am a mage... And a knify dirt-ear... a dirty knife-ear... What do I matter?'

For a moment, Cassandra's heartbeat quickens - and no amount of mental restraint can keep his words from going to her head. He may be too inebriated to even stand up straight - but he seems sincere... Perhaps he really does mean it - perhaps he really does think... Oh Maker!

'You do matter!' she blurts out, leaning down to the elf and pulling him up. 'I - I mean...'

Before she can gather her thoughts, the elf cuts her short with a loud snore. He has fallen asleep, leaning heavily against her, a trickle of drool oozing down onto her cuirass.

Cassandra lets out a disgusted noise, pondering over how shameful and embarrassing the whole situation is, and how unforgivably girly of her it was to be moved by a silly drunken speech, which Lavellan will not even remember after he wakes up... and how hard it will be to carry the pointy-eared wretch back to his bedroom.

But before she attempts to hoist the elf over her shoulder somehow, she thinks she can hear him mutter in his sleep,

'You are beautiful...'

***

With a loud, rasping breath, Lord Seeker Lucius leans forward, fingering the place where Sera's poisoned arrow punctured the leather fastenings of his armour and sank into his arm. His twisted face appears to be lit up by a ghastly greenish glow, and the skin over his upper lip glistens with sweat. As his jerking fingers explore the wound, his other arm - his sword arm - flaps listlessly by his side, ready to let go of his weapon.

Unable to see her Order's former leader disgraced and defeated, Cassandra averts her gaze, inclining her head somberly - and just as she does, the Lord Seeker springs into an upright battle pose, like a clockwork toy that has been wound up again, and lunges forward with a loud snarl.

Thankfully, Lavellan's reflexes prove to be lightning-fast - literally: a split second later, a loud thunder clap rings through the air, followed by the shrill hum of a shock bolt that slashes at the Lord Seeker, making him freeze in a bizarre, convulsive pose - unable to defend himself against the crushing sweep of Bull's battle axe. The blade falls with merciless precision, and, with a loud crunch, as though someone is trying to chew through glass with a pair of monstrous jaws, makes a deep notch mark in the Lord Seeker's skull; the man's eyes grow blank and glassy, their pupils dimly grey, and he sinks into the thick carpet of grass, a bright-red brush stroke dividing his face into two halves.

'Bits up, face down!' Sera declares triumphantly.

Bull responds with a loud guffaw - and Lavellan, too, cannot help but smile at his team's collective handiwork... But Cassandra does not join in the cheer; while the others were finishing off the Lord Seeker, she knelt before him, as though mourning his demise - however, as soon as the big Qunari is done with giving the puny elves mighty, staggering pats on the shoulder, the three of them realize that their human companion is pressing her hand against her side, just below her chest, where her set of heavy armour, fashioned just recently following the brand new Par-Vollen-style schematics, does not protect the body. And as they rush up to her, each calling out her name in alarm, she lets out a loud wheeze, something gargling inside her throat, and drops down next to the Lord Seeker. It seems that even lightning-fast reflexes were no match for the last thrust of a blade, wielded by an insane, dying man.

'Hey!' Bull calls out in a commanding tone - which rather contradicts his customary way of addressing Lavellan. 'Hey, boss! Stop swooning and pass me that potion kit!'

The elf obeys in silence - he does not even have it in him to protest and say something like 'I am not swooning!'. Judging by the sickly pallid shade of his skin, visible even underneath the thick, twisting vines of his vallaslin, and by his strained, almost moan-like breath, one might have thought he was the one who took a sword through the gut. The piteous sight is enough even for Sera's tongue to lose its sting for once.

'Now, you,' she says softly, ushering her ragdoll-like, half-paralyzed kinsman away from the wounded human to give Bull some space. 'He was in the army, he knows what to do. He'll fix her right up!'

'I should have asked Solas to come along...' Lavellan reponds dully. 'With his healing magic... But someone had to wreck his quarters, and now he is scurrying all over Skyhold searching for lost papers - instead of...'

Sera frowns, pushes her lower lip forward, and folds her hands on her chest, tapping her half-bare foot lightly on the ground, like an annoyed cat thrashes its tail.

'So it's my fault now?' she asks. 'I did not wreck anything! I just dropped a cricket down Doctor Eggman's shirt while he was off frolicking in the Fade; he did all the wrecking himself!'

Lavellan gives her a long look and then speaks; his voice is hollow and husky at first, but gradually grows more emotional, and feverishly fast,

'No, it is not your fault, Sera... If anyone is to be blamed, it's me... I should not have used those Qunari armour designs - without the vitaar to protect the skin, they are nothing but outfits for exotic dancing! And I should not have dallied around like I did - I should have been quicker! I should have dealt with that madman sooner! I...'

He ends his vehement speech in a loud choke, clawing at his temples; this makes Sera back off a few steps, making an exaggeratedly bug-eyed face to display her shock at the Inquisitor's outburst. Before she can say anything, however, Bull declares, while drawing away from Cassandra,

'There. I am no Stitches, but I patched her up as well as I could. The crazy bastard hit her pretty hard, though. We'll need to get her to the nearest Inquisition outpost or camp, some place that has a proper healer. I could carry her, but her arms and legs will be all flapping around and the bandage might slip off. I'll go rummage through these Promiser guys' stuff, maybe we could use something to make a stretcher. You two,' he points his finger emphatically at the elves. 'Keep her conscious. I know this feeling, when you are slipping away into a nice, dark, cozy place, away from the pain - only if you fall in there, you might never crawl out again. Focus her attention on something. Talk to her'.

 

With that, he turns his broad back on his two companions and walks out of the tower's courtyard.

Sera gives Lavellan a nudge.

'Go on then. Go and be all sobby and mushy like you were right now. She'll wanna punch you, and that means she'll stay alive!'

Lavellan glares at her silently from beneath a rather intense monobrow - but does as she says, approaching Cassandra and lowering himself onto his knees next to her. The sight of her face, drained of blood, with barely a breath escaping her darknened lips, makes Lavellan clench his teeth and breathe heavily through his nose to contain another meltdown; forcing himself to remain composed, he brushes the back of his hand against the cold, marble-like skin of the human's face, and breathes softly,

'Lethallan'.

He took to addressing Cassandra with this word not too long ago, when their constant bickering lost the last of its teeth - and apparently, Sera is not quite used to this 'elfiness'. She mutters something disapprovingly under her breath, but Lavellan takes no heed of that, for his gaze remains fixed on Cassandra.

The human is too weakened by the pain that ripped through her body and must be still throbbing somewhere, hot and poignant, inside the soggy patch that is slapped against her side; she does not open her eyes or part her lips. The only sign that affirms that she is listening is the tiny crease that almost never lets go the skin between her eyebrows - for a moment, it seems to release its hold, making her forehead smooth over; and that is good enough for Lavellan.

'Lethallan,' he repeats, once again out of a breath - and then adds, suddenly and sincerely,

'Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?'

There is no reply; Cassandra remains perfectly still - or... Or did her eyelashes flutter just now?

'You... You probably don't think of yourself as such...' the elf goes on, his voice slow and thoughtful, as, without quite realizing what he is doing, he gently caresses his lethallan's cheek.

'Judging by what your people's books say, you have probably been taught to believe that a beautiful shemlen woman is supposed to have huge blue eyes, long curly hair, and an hourglass waist that somehow does not break in two under the weight of her massive breasts'.

(Sera, who is still listening in, snorts loudly into her fist).

'But you know what... A hundred of such storybook beauties would be pale shades compared to you. You are the most stunning woman I have ever met - and... and you would probably slap me for this if you had the strength, but I...'

He lets out a small, nervous laugh.

'Sometimes I get distracted from whatever important Inquisitor business I am up to, and want to do nothing else but look at you. Watch how you move during target practice, how the sunlight outlines your features... You are just...'

Lavellan swallows and says once again, this time with more emphasis,

'You are so beautiful'.

Creators, what a load of nonsense he has just spouted! He should be telling her to hold on, to stay with them - and instead, he came up with a bloody poem! Sera must be rolling on the ground in an uncontrollable fit of laughter - and as for Cassandra herself, he half-expects her to rise up, miraculously cured of her injuries, and toss him over the tower's walls... But instead, all he sees is the colour returning to her cheeks.

Oh lethallan... You are beautiful!

***

'Shall we read another?'

His voice, husky and scorchingly hot, nestles in her ear, teasing, tempting - but not to read, oh no! His face looks up at her, cupped between her hands - that same face she has so often wanted to punch... Who could have thought their joint path, twisting and turning past dangers and obstacles, would lead them here, to this grove, to the candlelight and poetry and flower petals scattered at her feet? Who could have thought that their initial animosity would gradually transform into companionship, leading to proximity and, eventually, desire? Who could have thought that she, who once pressed her sword tip against this elf's throat, would want nothing more than feel his rapid, elated pulse with her lips?..

The book thuds to the ground, having played its part; her heart pounding, her mind still slightly perplexed at what her body is up to, Cassandra wraps her arms around Lavellan and pulls him into a long, deep kiss. A kiss that echoes through her entire self with a passionate force that is more terrible and magnificent than all of Varric's smutty opuses combined... That is, until Lavellan draws away.

Like someone who has stepped out into the cold wind after a long hot bath, Cassandra shivers and looks questioningly at the elf, who appears to be somehow... Sheepish? Apologetic? Maybe even frightened?

'Uh, Cassandra...' he says, glancing uncomfortably down at his feet. 'Before we, uh, go on... I want you to know something. When I bragged to Bull and the others about how many women I have bedded, I was not exactly... truthful. The thing is, I pretty much kept to myself when I lived with my clan, and the only girl I took a liking to, she preferred someone else. So, er - I am kind of... sort of...'

His voice fails him unexpectedly, turning into a squeak.

'A virgin'.

There is a small pause; Cassandra frowns, but does not move further away from Lavellan.

'Why would you have me believe otherwise?' she asks at length, perplexed.

Lavellan coughs.

'Because I... I never truly believed I could get you to care about me as much as I did about you, and... And I thought that if everyone assumed you weren't the only woman I had an eye for... I would look less... Pathetic... I... I am sorry, lethallan...'

His voice is cracking now, and he is clenching and unclenching his fists in frustration.

'I thought I could pull this off... I thought I could be that perfect, chivalrous man you dreamt about... I thought I could sweep you off your feet and make love to you under the moonlight, like in those sappy books of yours... But now, I suddenly feel so afraid that I will do something wrong and...'

'We are no longer guard and prisoner,' Cassandra says simply, when the elf's stuttering voice trails off to silence. 'You need not be so intimidated by me. This,'

She gestures around her with one hand, while drawing Lavellan close to her with another,

'This is everything I dreamt of, and more. Because this is not a book. This is real. You are real. And...'

She casts down her eyes, her face growing flushed with colour.

'And you are very precious to me'.

The skin on Lavellan's cheeks almost rips apart with the force of an enormous dreamy grin - a tiny reflection of which seems to dance on Cassandra's lips as well.

'Can you kiss me again, and go from there?' the elf asks. 'I will try my best to catch up'.

'As is your will, Inquisitor,' the human replies with mock solemnity - wondering internally at her suddenly discovered sense of humour.

And, one more time, their bodies are locked together, and their tongues drink each other in, while the whole world dissolves into a burst of starlight, and they tumble down onto the ground, laughing.

'Cassandra...' Lavellan manages to breathe, as they trample down the grass, bare limbs glowing in the murk, and their cold fingers trickle like tiny streams of water across their burning backs.

She looks up at him, her widened eyes shining through strands of loosened hair, her bared neck and collar bones sculpted out of silver by rays of moonlight.

'Cassandra...' he repeats her name, enjoying the taste of every syllable, just as, a moment ago, he was enjoying the warmth of her skin. 'You are so... beautiful...'


	2. Bonus Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny addition to the story, set after Trespasser.

Lavellan's loud, hoarse intake of breath, which sounds as if he were drowning, makes Cassandra start and open her eyes. Blinking slowly to clear away the bleary film of drowsiness, she turns over to her side and peers closely at the elf's profile, which is outlined in ashen grey by the pale light of the predawn hour.

 

He is lying on his back, every muscle in his body so painfully rigid that she can feel the tension without even touching him. The dim lighting seems to even further sharpen his features, which, following the events of the past few weeks, have grown gaunt and haggard almost beyond recognition. The deepened shadows around his eyes and mouth and the sickly tint of his skin have turned this vivacious elven man, over ten years her junior, into the blood-curdling likeness of the mummified bodies in Uncle Vestalus' necropolis.

 

No; heavens - what is she thinking! This is a horrible comparison.

 

Those corpses, sinewy, dissecated, with features warped so much that they no longer looked human, were empty shells of people long gone; when she looked at them as a small, impressionate child, she felt terrified, and revolted. But when she looks at _him_ , she feels grateful. Grateful to the Maker for bringing him back to her, for giving them another chance, even after she held him close as he writhed in pain, her heart heavy with the grim certainty that the merciless fire of the Fade would spread from his arm and consume him. And also... And also, she feels determined to help him heal. To make those shadows disappear from underneath his eyes, like all the is dark disappears at the break of dawn... Andraste's ashes, she should take care not to say something like this out loud in front of Varric!

 

'How are you feeling?' she asks quietly, laying her hand on Lavellan's chest.

 

He bites into his lips and turns away; as he shifts his head, a faint beam of light glides momentarily across his cheek, making the thin wet streak on his skin glint like a speck of silver.

 

'I...' he breathes out heavily, a pained lump travelling up and down his throat. 'I... I dreamt I was whole again. I dreamt I was me, not this broken... thing. And then I woke up and realized that it was just some bloody demon messing with my mind, and that I would never...'

 

His voice trails off into another strained breath, but its echo still rings in Cassandra's chest. The fingers of her free hand close round the creases of the bedsheet, as though clinging for support; and then, abruptly, she moves her other hand away from Lavellan's chest, pushes herself up into a sitting pose and bends over the elf, obstinately seeking out his gaze, no matter how hard he tries to avert it.

 

Finally, their eyes meet, and Lavellan's lips part in a smile. He has often told her that he cannot help but smile when he looks at her, and she understands how it must feel. She, after all, always succumbed to the same compulsion when she set her eyes on Lavellan. Even when she knew it was most improper - Maker, even when she was angry with him! It was like her lips had a mind of their own; and she wouldn't be surprised if Lavellan had the same overpowering inclination to smile, quite in spite of himself.

 

Perhaps, at this point it is already a reflex, an instinctive twitch of the face muscles - but still, she welcomes the sight of that smile, and the way it lights up his eyes. Those clear, amber-shaded eyes, which she could never describe, having searched arduously for an appropriate passage across all of her books and having found all of those elaborate constructs, dealing with sunfire and heavenly light and molten metal and Maker knows what else, to be shamefully inadequate.

 

She is still drinking in the soft liquid glow of the elf's gaze when she slides one hand back onto his chest again, then passing it along his neck and cupping it around his jaw. Her thumb gently strokes the cold, wet spot over his cheekbone - but her voice when she speaks is far from gentle. It is loud and unwavering; and she punctuates her words the same way she did when a mage recruit approached her with complaints, and she told him to deal with it. Lavellan will have to deal with it too; if he is to be healed, she will not have it any other way. And that is final.

 

'You. Are. Beautiful'.

 

 


End file.
